


smash your heart into a thousand summers

by honey_wheeler



Category: Friday Night Lights
Genre: Adultery, F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 21:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Julie runs into him in a Marriott in Baltimore, of all places, as she's exhausted and waiting to check into her room so she can crash before she has to get up for the conference welcoming dinner. Then there's a nudge at her shoulder, the flash of a reckless grin and a deep voice saying her name - her maiden name - and the smell that she's somehow never forgotten ever since he wrapped himself around her during a tornado in the most wildly romantic moment of her young and clueless life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	smash your heart into a thousand summers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lit_chick08](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lit_chick08/gifts).



> Written for the **[Your Cheating Heart](http://workswithwords.livejournal.com/272324.html)** ficathon, for the prompt: Tim/Julie - Curiosity killed the Saracens.

It's a stone unturned. A idle thought from a long time ago that she never made good on and that's cropped up at inconvenient times ever since: when she's grocery shopping, sometimes, or writing the rent check, or watching a movie with an actor who has that same swagger and that same line from ribs to hips, a sinuous curve that seems to promise something thrilling and unspeakable.

Matt was thrilling in his way, but he was always pretty speakable. Not like Tim Riggins. But then, no one was really like Tim Riggins.

Julie runs into him in a Marriott in Baltimore, of all places, as she's exhausted and waiting to check into her room so she can crash before she has to get up for the conference welcoming dinner. Then there's a nudge at her shoulder, the flash of a reckless grin and a deep voice saying her name - her maiden name - and the smell that she's somehow never forgotten ever since he wrapped himself around her during a tornado in the most wildly romantic moment of her young and clueless life. She blinks at him, dumbly saying his name in a confused question before he envelops her in a rib-cracking hug, and suddenly she's not so tired after all.

"You look good," he says, frank appreciation coloring the words.

"You do too," she answers, blushing at her own frank appreciation and feeling that familiar flare of wriggly annoyance when his smile turns knowing and smug at everything she doesn't say.

He pays for the first round, and the second. He insists. The welcoming dinner can wait while she has a few drinks with an old friend, she tells herself. Then she decides it can wait a bit longer. There's still time to go for dessert even if she and Tim have dinner right here in the hotel restaurant - the hotel she still has no idea why he's in, since they've spent the whole time reminiscing. The present doesn't seem nearly as pressing as the past. And there's still wine in her glass, a dark ruby winking at her each time she raises it to her lips and tries not to notice Tim watching her with hot eyes. She'll go when her wine runs out.

Except this is one of those niceish restaurants, where your wine is always mysteriously filled by some unseen waiter. Whoops.

He's kissing her before the elevator doors even close. She'd be surprised that she's kissing him back, but there's no surprise in this. She'd been imagining it since she saw him standing there next to her at the check-in desk, her most reliable fantasy materializing out of her past to give her sex-eyes and talk in words that sounded like innuendos even when they weren't. 

Well. Consider that stone turned.

He takes her to his room - no discussion, no negotiation. He just rubs his hand over her crotch through her jeans so boldly she can't breathe and says, "My room," as if the idea that she might stop at kissing in the elevator never even occurred to him. She'd be offended, except it never occurred to her either. He kisses the side of her neck all the way down the hall, his thighs at the back of hers bumping each leg forward in a stumbling walk, his hand not just on her crotch but in her panties now, feeling for himself with blunt fingers just how much it hasn't occurred to her to tell him to stop. He fumbles with the key card and for a moment she feels her heart lurch. Sometimes it's hard to remember Tim is human, that he used to be a kid with no place to go and no way out. 

"Let me," she says, taking the key card from him. He lets her. It feels more significant than it is.

Her wedding ring scrapes a crimson line on his jaw when she wrenches his shirt over his head. He doesn't seem to mind. "Not the first time I've been gouged by one of those," she can imagine him joking in his laconic drawl, the one that seems so wholly and completely _Texas_ to her.

The sex is wildly athletic. He's gotten a bit soft in the middle, just like Matt, but he's as strong as ever. He lifts her by the waist as if she weighs nothing, tosses her here and there, putting her just where he wants her so he can do just what he likes. It's a world away from sex with Matt, which had been gentle and endearingly awkward at first, before quickly becoming as comfortable and familiar as a well-worn Dillon Athletics t-shirt. Tim is most definitely _not_ a comfortable t-shirt. He can't even be compared to clothes. He's an animal, and there's a thrill of the safest sort of fear in it when he flips her beneath him and hooks her knees with his elbows so he can drive into her even faster. She's never really gotten off on penetration, but something about the angle or the situation or the partner is making her feel like she might turn inside out, and she somehow wants him to stop and never, ever stop, both at the same time.

She loses track. Do they fuck three times, four? Does it matter? She thinks of Matt both too much and not enough. "You'll never guess who I saw," she might say when she gets home, as he picks her up at the airport, taking her bag and swinging it into the trunk for her even before kissing her hello. "Never in a million years will you guess."

Or maybe she won't say anything at all. Maybe she'll tell him not to come - "It's so far, and it'll be rush hour" - and take a shuttle instead.

She wakes in the middle of the night to find Tim smoking out the glass door on to the balcony, the curtains rustling every time he pokes his arm outside to ash on the concrete floor. It's about as cliché as Julie could imagine and something about it seems better that way. She wasn't looking for romance. She has that in spades at home.

"You want one?" he asks, his voice sounding like gravel as he throws a half-crumpled pack of cigarettes on to the bed. She shakes her head, setting the pack gently on the nightstand, the nondescript hotel nightstand with a blank pad of paper and a ballpoint pen and probably a Gideon bible in the top drawer.

"I'm good," she says, and she should feel far more guilt than she does at the lie of it.


End file.
